The Lone Ranche

It is not this that strikes dismay into the minds of those who are spectators, for it is now struck into their heart of hearts. On one figure of the cavalcade the eyes of both become fixed; he who rides at its head.

Their attention had been first attracted to his horse, Wilder gasping out, soon as he set eyes on the animal, “Look yonner, Frank!”

“At what?”

“The fellur ridin’ foremost. D’ye see the anymal he’s on? It’s the same we war obleeged to abandon on takin’ to the rocks.”

“By heavens! my horse!”

“Yurs, to a sartinty.”

“And his rider! The man I fought with at Chihuahua, the ruffian Uraga!”

On recognising his antagonist in the duel, the Kentuckian gives out a groan. The Texan, too. For on both the truth flashes in all its fulness – all its terrible reality.

It is not the possession of Hamersley’s horse, identifying its rider with the destroyers of the caravan. That is nothing new, and scarce surprises them. What pains – agonises them – is the direction in which the soldiers are proceeding.

They can have no doubt as to the purpose of the military march, or the point to which it is tending.

“Yes,” says Walt, “they’re strikin’ straight fur the valley, goin’ ’ithout guess-work, too. Thar’s a guide along, an’ thar’s been a treetur.”

“Who do you think?”

“That Injun, Manoel. Ye remember he went on a errand ’bout a week ago, to fetch them some things that war needed. Instead, he’s made diskivery o’ the hidin’ place o’ his master, and sold that master’s head. That’s what he’s did, sure.”

“It is,” mutters Hamersley, in a tone that tells of affliction too deep for speech. Before his mind is a fearful forecast. Don Valerian a prisoner to Uraga and his ruffians – Don Prospero, too; both to be dragged back to Albuquerque and cast into a military prison. Perhaps worse still – tried by court-martial soon as captured, and shot as soon as tried. Nor is this the direst of his previsions. There is one darker – Adela in the company of a ribald crew, surrounded by the brutal soldiery, powerless, unprotected – she his own dear one, now his betrothed! Overcome by his emotions he remains for some time silent, scarce heeding the remarks of his comrade. One, however, restores his attention.

“I tolt ye so,” says Walt. “See! yonner’s the skunk himself astride o’ a mule at the tail o’ the gang.”

Hamersley directs his eyes to the rear of the outstretched rank. There, sure enough, is a man on muleback, dressed differently from the troopers. The coarse woollen tilma, and straw hat, he remembers as having been worn by one of Mirander’s male domestics. He does not identify the man. But Walt’s recollection of his rival is clearer, and he has no doubt that he on the mule is Manuel. Nor, for that matter, has Hamersley. The peon’s presence is something to assist in the explanation. It clears up everything.

Hamersley breathes hard as the dark shadows sweep through his soul. For a long time absorbed in thought, he utters scarce an ejaculation. Only after the lancer troop has passed, its rearmost files just clearing the alignment of the copse, he gasps out, in a voice husky as that of one in the act of being strangled, —

“They’re going straight for the place. O God!”

“Yes,” rejoins the ex-Ranger, in a tone like despondent, “Thar boun’ thar for sartint. The darned creetur’s been tempted by the blood-money set on Kumel Miranda’s head, an’ air too like to git it. They’ll grup him, sure; an’s like as not gie him the garota. Poor gentleman! He air the noblest Mexikin I iver sot eyes on, an’ desarves a better fate. As for the ole doc, he may get off arter sarvin’ a spell in prison, an’ the saynorita – ”

A groan from Hamersley interrupts the remark. His comrade, perceiving how much he is pained, modifies what he meant to say.

“Thar’s no need to be so much afeard o’ what may happen to her. She ain’t goin’ to be rubbed out, anyhow; an’ if she hasn’t no brother to purtect her, I reckon she’s got a frien’ in you, Frank. An’ hyar’s another o’ the same, as they say in the Psalms o’ Davit.”

Walt’s words have a hopeful sound. Hamersley is cheered by them, but replies not. He only presses the hand of his comrade in silent and grateful grasp.

“Yis,” continues the ex-Ranger with increased emphasis, “I’d lay down my life to save that young lady from harum, as I know you’d lay down yourn. An’ thet air to say nothin’ o’ my own gurl. This chile ain’t niver been much guv to runnin’ arter white wheemen, an’ war gen’rally content to put up wi’ a squaw. But sech as them! As for yourn, I don’t wonder yur heart beats like a chased rabbit’s; myen air doin’ the same for Concheeter. Wal, niver fear! Ef thar’s a hair o’ eyther o’ thar heads teched, you’ll hear the crack o’ Walt Wilder’s rifle, and see its bullet go into the breast o’ him as harms ’em. I don’t care who or what he air, or whar he be. Nor I don’t care a durn – not the valley of a dried buffler-chip – what may come arter – hangin’, garrotin’, or shootin’. At all risks, them two sweet creeturs air bound to be protected from harum; an ef it comes, they shall be reevenged. I swar that, by the Eturnal!”

“I join you in the oath,” pronounces Hamersley, with emphatic fervour, once more exchanging a hand-squeeze with his companion. “Yes, Walt; the brave Miranda may be sacrificed – I fear it must be so. But for his sister, there is still a hope that we may save her; and surely heaven will help us. If not, I shall be ready to die. Ah! death would be easier to bear than the loss of Adela!”

“An’ for this chile the same, rayther than he shed lose Concheeter.”

Chapter Forty Nine.

A Cautious Commander

No need saying that the cavalcade seen passing the copse is the lancer troop of Colonel Uraga.

Some thirty hours before, they ascended to the Staked Plain, and are now nearly across it. Guided by the traitor, they had no need to grope their way, and have made quick time. In a few hours more they will pounce upon the prey for which they have swooped so far.

The two men concealed in the grove expect them to ride on without stopping, till out of sight. Instead, they see them draw up at a few miles distance, though all remain mounted. Two separate from the rest keep on a couple of hundred yards ahead, then also halt.

These are Uraga himself, with his adjutant Roblez.

’Tis only a temporary pause to exchange counsel about the plan of proceeding – as a falcon expands itself in the air before its last flight towards the quarry it has selected.

Before separating from his followers, Uraga has summoned to his side the youngest commissioned officer of the troop, saying, —

“Alferes! go back to that Indian! Send the brute on to the front here.”

Manuel is the individual thus coarsely indicated.

Told that he is wanted, the peon spurs his mule forward, and places himself by the side of the commanding officer, who has meanwhile dismounted.

In the countenance of the Indian there is an expression of conscious guilt, such as may appear in that of one not hardened by habitual crime. There is even something like compunction for what he is about to do, with remorse for what he has already done. Now that he is drawing near the scene, where those betrayed by him must suffer, his reflections are anything but pleasant. Rather are they tinged with regret. Don Valerian Miranda has been an indulgent master to him, and the Dona Adela a kind mistress. On both he is bringing destruction.

And what is to be his reward? From the time of his betraying them, the moment he parted with the secret of their hiding-place, he has lost control of it.

He is no longer treated with the slightest respect. On the contrary, he to whom he communicated it behaves to him as conqueror to conquered, master to slave, forcing him forward with sword pointed at his breast, or pistol aimed at his head.

If a guide, he is no longer looked upon as a voluntary one. Nor would he be this, but for a thought that inspires, while keeping him true to his treasonous intent. When he thinks of Conchita – of that scene in the cotton-wood grove – of the Texan kissing her – holding her in his fond embrace – when the Indian recalls all this, torturing his soul afresh, then no more remorse, not a spark of regret, not a ray of repentance!

No; perish the dueno – the duena too! Let die the good doctor, if need be – all whom his vengeance has devoted!

“Sirrah! are those the two peaks you spoke of?”

It is Uraga who puts this interrogatory, pointing to a pair of twin summits seen rising above the horizon to eastward.

“Si Señor Coronel; they are the same.”

“And you say the path leads down between them?”

“Goes down through a gulch, after keeping round the cliff.”

“And there’s no other by which the valley may be entered?”

“Your excellency, I did not say that. There is another entrance, but not from the upper plain here. A stream runs through, and cuts it way out beyond. Following its channel through the cañon, the place can be reached from below; but not after it’s been raining. Then the flood fills its bed, and there’s no path along the edge. As it hasn’t rained lately, the banks will be above water.”

“And anyone could pass out below?”

“They could, Señor Coronel.”

“We require to observe caution, Roblez,” says Uraga, addressing himself to the adjutant; “else we may have made our long journey for nothing. ’Twill never do to enter the cage and find the birds flown. How far is it to the point where the river runs below?”

The question is put to the peon.

“Cinco leguas, Señor; not less. It’s a long way to get round, after going down the cliff.”

“Five leagues there, and five back up the canon of the stream – quite a day’s journey. If we send a detachment round ’twill take all of that. Shall we do it?”

“I don’t think there’s the slightest need for wasting so much time,” counsels the adjutant.

“But the Indian says any one going down the defile between those hills can be seen from the house. Supposing they should see us, and retreat by the opening below?”

“No need to let them see us. We can stay above till night, then descend in the darkness. As they’re not likely to be expecting visitors, there should be no great difficulty in approaching this grand mansion unannounced. Let us make our call after the hour of midnight, when, doubtless, the fair Adela will be dreaming of – ”

“Enough!” exclaims Uraga, a cloud suddenly coming over his countenance, as if the words of his subordinate recalled some unpleasant souvenir. “We shall do as you say, ayadante. Give orders for the men to dismount. We shall halt here till sunset. Meanwhile, see that this copper-skin is closely kept. To make safe, you may as well clap the manacles on him.”

In obedience, Roblez takes the Indian back to the halted troop, directs him to be shackled; then gives the order for dismounting.

But not for a night camp, only for a temporary bivouac; and this without fires, or even unsaddling of the horses. The troopers are to stay by the stirrup, ready at any moment to remount.

There stay they; no longer in formation, but, as commanded, silent and motionless; only such stir as is made by snatching a morsel from their haversacks or smoking their corn-husk cigarritos.

Thus till near sundown, when, remounting, they move on.

Chapter Fifty.

Stalking the Stalker!

The spot upon which the lancer troop had halted was less than a league from the grove that gave shelter to the two Americans. In the translucent atmosphere of the tableland it looked scarce a mile. The individual forms of troopers could be distinguished, and the two who had taken themselves apart. The taller of these was easily identified as the commanding officer of the troop.

“If they’d only keep thar till arter sundown,” mutters Wilder, “especially him on yur hoss, I ked settle the hul bizness. This hyar gun the doc presented to me air ’bout as good a shootin’-iron as I’d care to shet my claws on, an ’most equal to my own ole rifle. I’ve gin it all sorts o’ trials, tharfor I know it’s good for plum center at a hundred an’ fifty paces. Ef yonner two squattin’ out from the rest ’ill jest stay thur till the shades o’ night gie me a chance o’ stealin’ clost enuf, thar’s one o’ ’em will never see daylight again.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Hamersley, with a sigh of despair, and yet half hopeful, “if they would but remain there till night, we might still head them into the valley, time enough to get our friends away.”

“Don’t you have any sech hopes, Frank; thar’s no chance o’ that I kin see what the party air arter. They’ve made up thar mind not to ’tempt goin’ inter the gully till they hev a trifle o’ shadder aroun’ them. They think that ef they’re seen afore they git up to the house their victims might ’scape ’em. Tharfor they purpiss approachin’ the shanty unobserved, and makin’ a surround o’ it. That’s thar game. Cunnin’ o’ them, too, for Mexikins.”

“Yes, that is what they intend doing – no doubt of it. Oh, heavens! only to think we are so near, and yet cannot give Miranda a word of warning!”

“Can’t be helped. We must put our trust in Him as hes an eye on all o’ us – same over these desert purairas an’ mountains as whar people are livin’ in large cities. Sartin we must trust to Him an’ let things slide a bit, jest as He may direct ’em. To go out of our kiver now ’ud be the same as steppin’ inter the heart o’ a forest fire. Them sogers air mounted on swift horses, an’ ’ud ketch up wi these slow critturs o’ mules in the shakin’ o’ goat’s tail. Thurfor, let’s lie by till night. Tain’t fur off now. Then, ef we see any chance to steal down inter the valley, we’ll take edvantage o’ it.”

Hamersley can make no objection to the plan proposed. He sees no alternative but accede to it. So they remain watching the halted troop, regarding every movement with keen scrutiny.

For several hours are they thus occupied, until the sun begins to throw elongated shadows over the plain. Within half an hour of its setting the Mexicans again mount their horses and move onwards.

“Jest as I supposed they’d do,” said Walt. “Thar’s still all o’ ten miles atween them and the place. They’ve mezyured the time it’ll take ’em to git thur – an hour or so arter sundown. Thar ain’t the shadder o’ a chance for us to steal ahead o’ ’em. We must stay in this kiver till they’re clar out o’ sight.”

And they do stay in it until the receding horsemen, who present the appearance of giants under the magnifying twilight mist, gradually grow less, and at length fade from view under the thickening darkness.

Not another moment do Hamersley and the hunter remain within the grove, but springing to their saddles, push on after the troop.

Night soon descending, with scarce ten minutes of twilight, covers the plain with a complete obscurity, as if a shroud of crape had been suddenly thrown over it.

There is no moon, not even stars, in the sky; and the twin buttes, that form the portals of the pass, are no longer discerned.

But the ex-Ranger needs neither moon, nor stars, nor mountain peaks to guide him for such a short distance. Taking his bearings before starting from the black-jack copse, he rides on in a course straight as the direction of a bullet from his own rifle, until the two mounds loom up, their silhouettes seen against the leaden sky.

“We mustn’t go any furrer, Frank,” he says, suddenly pulling up his mule; “leastwise, not a-straddle o’ these hyar conspikerous critters. Whether the sogers hev goed down inter the valley or no, they’re sartin to hev left some o’ the party ahind, by way o’ keepin’ century. Let’s picket the animals out hyar, an’ creep forrad afut. That’ll gie us a chance o’ seeing in, ’ithout bein’ seen.”

The mules being disposed of as Walt had suggested, the two continue their advance.

First walking erect, then in bent attitude, then crouching still lower, then as quadrupeds on all-fours, and at length, crawling like reptiles, they make their approach to the pass that leads down into the valley.

They do not enter it; they dare not. Before getting within the gape of its gloomy portals they hear voices issuing therefrom. They can see tiny sparks of fire glowing at the lips of ignited cigars. From this they can tell that there are sentries there – a line of them across the ravine, guarding it from side to side.

“It ain’t no use tryin’, Frank,” whispers Wilder; “ne’er a chance o’ our settin’ through. They’re stannin’ thick all over the ground. I kin see by thar seegars. Don’t ye hear them palaverin? A black snake kedn’t crawl through among ’em ’ithout bein’ obsarved.”

“What are we to do?” asks Hamersley, in a despairing tone.

“We kin do nothin’ now, ’ceptin’ go back an’ git our mules. We must move them out o’ the way afore sun-up. ’Taint no matter o’ use our squattin’ hyar. No doubt o’ what’s been done. The main body’s goed below; them we see’s only a party left to guard the gap. Guess it’s all over wi’ the poor critters in the cabin, or will be afore we kin do anythin’ to help ’em. Ef they ain’t kilt, they’re captered by this time.”

Hamersley can scarce restrain himself from uttering an audible groan. Only the evident danger keeps him silent.

“I say agin, Frank, ’tair no use our stayin’ hyar. Anythin’ we kin do must be did elsewhar. Let’s go back for our mules, fetch ’em away, an’ see ef we kin clomb up one o’ these hyar hills. Thar’s a good skirtin’ o’ kiver on thar tops. Ef the anymals can’t be tuk up, we kin leave them in some gulch, an’ go on to the summut ourselves. Thar we may command a view o’ all that passes. The sogers’ll be sartin to kum past in the mornin’, bringin’ thar prisoners. Then we’ll see who’s along wi’ ’em, and kin foller thar trail.”

“Walt, I’m willing to do as you direct. I feel as if I’d lost all hope, and could give way to downright despair.”

“Deespair be durned! Thar’s allers a hope while thar’s a bit o’ breth in the body. Keep up yur heart, man! Think o’ how we war ’mong them wagguns. That oughter strengthen yur gizzern. Niver say die till yur dead, and the crowner are holdin’ his ’quest over yur karkidge. Thet’s the doctryne o’ Walt Wilder.”

As if to give illustrative proof of it, he catches hold of his comrade’s sleeve; with a pluck turns him around, and leads him back to the place where they had parted from the mules. These are released from their pickets, then led silently, and in a circuitous direction, towards the base of one of the buttes.

Its sides appear too steep for even a mule to scale them; but a boulder-strewed ravine offers a suitable place for secreting the animals.

There they are left, their lariats affording sufficient length to make them fast to the rocks, while a tapado of the saddle-blankets secures them against binneying.

Having thus disposed of the animals, the two men scramble on up the ravine, reach the summit of the hill, and sit down among the cedar-scrub that crowns it, determined to remain there and await the “development of events.”

Chapter Fifty One.

Approaching the Prey

Were we gifted with clairvoyance, it might at times spare us much misery, thought at other times it would make it. Perhaps ’tis better we are as we are.

Were Frank Hamersley and Walt Wilder, keeping watch on the summit of the mound, possessed of second sight, they would not think of remaining there throughout all the night – not for an hour – nay, not so much as a minute, for they would be aware that within less than ten miles of them is a party of men with friendly hearts and strong arms, both at their disposal for the very purpose they now need such. Enough of them to strike Uraga’s lancers and scatter them like chaff.

And could the man commanding these but peep over the precipitous escarpment of the Llano Estacado and see those stalwart Texans bivouacked below, he would descend into the valley with less deliberation, and make greater haste to retire out of it. He and his know nothing of the formidable foes so near, any more than Hamersley and Wilder suspect the proximity of such powerful friends. Both are alike unconscious that the Texans are encamped within ten miles. Yet they are; for the gorge at whose mouth they have halted is the outlet of the valley stream, where it debouches upon the Texan plain.

Without thought of being interfered with, the former proceed upon their ruthless expedition; while the latter have no alternative but await its issue. They do so with spirits impatiently chafing, and hearts sorely agonised.

Both are alike apprehensive for what next day’s sun will show them – perchance a dread spectacle.

Neither shuts eye in sleep. With nerves excited and bosoms agitated they lie awake, counting the hours, the minutes; now and then questioning the stars as to the time.

They converse but little, and only in whispers. The night is profoundly still. The slightest sound, a word uttered above their breath, might betray them.

They can distinctly hear the talk of the lancers left below. Hamersley, who understands their tongue, can make out their conversation. It is for the most part ribald and blasphemous, boasts of their bonnes fortunes with the damsels of the Del Norte, commingled with curses at this ill-starred expedition that for a time separates them from their sweethearts.

Among them appears a gleam greater than the ignited tips of their cigarittos. ’Tis the light of a candle which they have stuck up over a serape spread along the earth. Several are seen clustering around it; while their conversation tells that they are relieving the dull hours with a little diversion. They are engaged in gambling, and ever and anon the cries, “Soto en la puerta!” “Cavallo mozo!” ascending in increased monotone, proclaim it to be the never-ending national game of montè.

Meanwhile Uraga, with the larger body of the lancers, has got down into the glen, and is making way towards the point aimed at. He proceeds slowly and with caution. This for two distinct reasons – the sloping path is difficult even by day, at night requiring all the skill of experienced riders to descend it. Still with the traitor at their head, who knows every step, they gradually crawl down the cliff, single file, again forming “by twos” as they reach the more practicable causeway below.

Along this they continue to advance in silence and like caution. Neither the lancer colonel nor his lieutenant has forgotten the terrible havoc made among the Tenawas by the two men who survived that fearful affray, and whom they may expect once more to meet. They know that both have guns – the traitor has told them so – and that, as before, they will make use of them. Therefore Uraga intends approaching stealthily, and taking them by surprise. Otherwise he may himself be the first to fall – a fate he does not wish to contemplate. But there can be no danger, he fancies as he rides forward. It is now the mid-hour of night, a little later, and the party to be surprised will be in their beds. If all goes well he may seize them asleep.

So far everything seems favourable. No sound comes from the direction of the lonely dwelling, not even the bark of a watch dog. The only noises that interrupt the stillness of the night are the lugubrious cry of the coyoté and the wailing note of the whip-poor-will; these, at intervals blending with the sweeter strain of the tzenzontle – the Mexican nightingale – intermittently silenced as the marching troop passes near the spot where it is perched.

Once more, before coming in sight of the solitary jacal, Uraga commands a halt. This time to reconnoitre, not to rest or stay. The troopers sit in their saddles, with reins ready to be drawn; like a flock of vultures about to unfold their wings for the last swoop upon their victims – to clutch, tear, kill, do with them as they may wish!

Chapter Fifty Two.

A Bloodless Capture

A house from which agreeable guests have just taken departure is rarely cheerful. The reverse, if these have been very agreeable – especially on the first evening after.

The rude sheiling which gives shelter to the refugees is no exception. Everyone under its roof is afflicted with low spirits, some of them sad – two particularly so.

Thus has it been since the early hour of daybreak, when the guests regretted spoke the parting speech.

In the ears of Adela Miranda, all day long, has been ringing that painful word, “Adios!” while thoughts about him who uttered it have been agitating her bosom.